


The Alpha’s Guide to Workplace Professionalism

by ThePunkRanger



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Alpha Joan, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Because Alphas Are Gross, Brief mentions of rape/non-con, Dealing With Heat in A Professional Manner, Edging, F/M, Lady Alphas Have Dicks Because I Say So, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Sherlock, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:49:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26290660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePunkRanger/pseuds/ThePunkRanger
Summary: Joan Watson may be an alpha, but she doesn’t let it rule her life.  She has friends, colleagues, even clients who are omegas, and she’s never felt the need to mate with any of them.Why should Sherlock Holmes be any different?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Joan Watson (Elementary)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 94





	1. Chapter 1

She’s standing in the cold, coat wrapped around herself as she takes in the information her boss is telling her.Her finger slides over the touchscreen of her phone, browsing through the case file she’s been sent.Nothing too out of the ordinary, though she does note that her new client is a detective, and...

“Are you sure you want me to take this one?”She asks into the phone, one eyebrow raised even though she knows he can’t see her, “It says here he’s an omega.”

“His father says it won’t be a problem, and I believe you’re the best one to handle his case,” the voice on the phone says, all business.

“Alright.”She’s had omega clients before, and she prides herself on being the rare alpha who doesn’t jump at the first pretty omega she sees.No,  she has self-control, and this omega needs her help.“Just one last question,” she furrows her brow over the information, “What kind of name is Sherlock?”

—

When she gets to the Brownstone, there’s an alpha leaving.The woman is black-haired, and on the smaller side for an alpha, though in the split-second they brush past one another Joan’s senses are overwhelmed by the scent of sex and wanting omega.That’s just what she needs.

There’s no one around when she lets herself inside, but she can hear the bizarre mix of sound that comes from too many audio sources playing at once.

When she finds the source of the noise, she’s thrown off by the sheer volume of it.Seven different TVs playing at once.And standing in front of them is her new client.Shirtless.

Even through the sensory overload of the televisions she still zeros in on the scent of recently fucked omega.Which is odd, because had it not been for his scent, she isn’t sure she would ever have pegged him for one.She’s certainly not the biggest alpha around, but even still it’s a surprise to see just how much  _taller_ than her he is, with prominent muscles and, she notes even before he turns to her, actual body hair.

So many omegas lack the testosterone to grow more than a smattering, but this one is as furry as any alpha male.

And because she’s a professional she doesn’t focus on any of this and instead goes to introduce herself.

“Do you believe in love at first sight?”

—

Sherlock Holmes is a madman.A madman who doesn’t want her in his house.

After trying to throw her off with television quotes, he drags her to the scene of a murder, where she meets the people who she’s technically counting as his co-workers, even though he’s only a consultant.

Sherlock is crazy smart, but he’s also just plain crazy.Scattered and messy, with the energy of a puppy and the dominating presence of some of the most obnoxious knot-heads she’s ever known.He’s twitchy and volatile in a way not uncommon for recovering addicts, but there’s an extra edge to it with him, because most rehab facilities will take omegas off of any heat or hormone suppressants they’ve been taking as well as narcotics, and even if she hadn’t memorized Sherlock’s case file, she would still be able to tell that he’s made liberal use of them in the past.

When honey drips down on her from the ceiling, she reminds herself that this is only for six weeks, and that she is absolutely  _not_ intrigued or enraptured by Sherlock Holmes.

Because she’s a professional.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of my high-end prostitute knowledge comes from watching one season of Secret Diary of A Call Girl back in 2013

They’re coming up on week five when it fully hits her: she doesn’t _want_ to go.She  likes Sherlock.Likes what he does and who he is.She likes the rush of solving cases and the odd camaraderie they’ve ended up forming.

It’s nearly the end of week five when she fully realizes something else: Sherlock hasn’t gone into heat yet, but he will soon.

She should have noticed the change in his pheromones before, but his scent is absolutely  _ everywhere _ in the Brownstone.Not only is the place filled with his scent, but he leaves his dirty clothes everywhere, making it even stronger and more muddled.The fact that she hasn’t gone insane these last few weeks is a testament to her complete and utter self-control.

But the truth is, she’s so focused on  _ not _ paying attention to Sherlock’s scent that she doesn’t even realize he’s coming up on his first heat since going off of suppressants until his knees buckle out from under him in the middle of an interrogation.

“Oh my god, Sherlock?”She’s at his side in an instant, one hand protectively at his back while the other goes to his forehead.He’s burning up, his skin wet with sweat and she should’ve noticed the signs.“Are you okay?”It might be a dumb question, but he’s at major risk for a heat fever, which means she has to ask anyway.

Sherlock only manages a groan, and her heart is pounding in her ears.

“Watson?”That’s Gregson behind her, hovering like a nervous mother hen.

She catches his eyes, fully knowing that her concern is written clear as day across her face.“I need to get him home.”

“Aw, come on, all the bitch needs is a good knot,” their suspect purrs, already halfway out of his seat, and Joan isn’t sure whether it’s Gregson’s snarl or her own that sends him scrambling back into his chair faster than either of them can blink.

“Right, I’ll give you cover to get him out of here,” Gregson promises, kneeling down to support the arm that Joan doesn’t already have wrapped around her shoulders.

“I’m... fine...” Sherlock manages, but the words peter out in a whine that comes from low in his throat, and as far as Joan is concerned, he’s past the point of making the call on this one.

She and Gregson share an eye roll, and then he’s helping her lift Sherlock to his feet and ushering them out the door of the interrogation room.

They’re halfway to the elevator when a pair of officers she can’t name passes them too close, one of the men stopping to sniff the air before sniggering to his companion.

“The great Sherlock Holmes, laid low by his heat!What do you bet he could count each sperm that knocks him up as I knot him?”

Joan has just enough sense in her to make sure Gregson has a firm grip on Sherlock before she throws herself at the officer, landing one solid punch to his jaw before a pair of muscular arms grab her.

“Woah!Joan!”It’s Bell, putting all of his strength into stopping her from pummeling the living _shit_ out of the mouthy alpha she’s sent into a desk.

Thank god for calm, level-headed beta Marcus Bell. 

When she stops resisting him, Bell slackens his grip, turning her back in the direction of Sherlock.“Take your boy home, I’ll take care of them,” Bell jerks his head to where the officer’s partner is helping him back to his feet.

Joan manages a nod before going back to Sherlock, taking the brunt of his weight from Gregson as the elevator doors open for them.

Sherlock leans heavily on her the whole way home, nuzzling into her neck in a way that she knows will leave beard burn, her senses swimming with the sweet, warm vanilla scent of omega in heat.

The driver of the cab they take home won’t stop watching them through the rearview mirror, to the point where she begins to worry about getting into an accident.

By the time they finally, _finally _, get home, she isn’t sure Sherlock even still remembers his words.The man who never shuts up hasn’t spoken since they left the precinct.__

She sits him on the couch, and he makes a sound like she’s taking something precious from him when she goes to walk away.Which, she supposes, might be flattering under different circumstances.

The first thing she does is go downstairs and fill the largest glass she can find with cold water, then soak a washcloth in the same.Keeping Sherlock from dehydration or fever is really all she can do here if she doesn’t want to betray the trust they’ve worked so hard to build.

She takes a moment, there in the kitchen, to just lean against the counter and catch her breath. She might know Sherlock is off-limits, but her body does _not _, at least, not if the hard-on she’s been sporting most of the day is any indication.__

She’s an adult, not some hormone-addled teenager who can’t control themselves.She can do this.She’s done it before, and she can do it again.She’s nursed omegas through heat fevers during her residency, worked with clients going through their first heats without suppressants, even brought groceries and essentials for friends while they went through theirs.

_ None of them were Sherlock, though._

The thought comes unbidden, and she fully admits the thing she’s been dancing around for weeks: she might just be in love with Sherlock Holmes.

Which is even more of a reason for her to keep her cool right now.

Sherlock needs her, but he doesn’t need _that._

He’s trying to unbutton his shirt with frantic, clumsy fingers when she comes back to him.

“At least let me help with the buttons,” she says, placing the glass of water gingerly on the side table.

“ _Joan _...”__ her name comes out as a moan, sending warm shivers down her spine.

No.No, she won’t give into temptation.She sits down beside him, holding the washcloth in one hand, and allows him to lean against her, burying his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in her scent.

“Okay, okay,” she murmurs, laying the cool cloth across the back of his neck, “It’s all gonna be okay...” his hair is damp to the touch when she runs her fingers through it.She undoes his shirt and vest more by touch than sight, her vision obscured by Sherlock as he tries to press in closer against her.

By the time his torso is bare she can hardly breathe, her senses are so overwhelmed by him, and it’s a struggle to command her body to push him away.

“Sherlock.”She uses a firm, level voice that actually manages to draw his attention away from the regrettably noticeable bulge in her slacks and up to her face, “I need you to tell me if you have any sort of protocol for this.Instructions, contacts, emergency numbers...” she has to hold him by the chin to keep his eyes above her waist, “The address of a hotel I should stay at.Anything.”

He swallows roughly, twice, and she definitely doesn’t watch his adam’s apple the whole time.After several moments of shaky, deep breathing he nods, lowering her hand with his own.“Upstairs, in... in my bedside drawer.”

“Okay.”She withdraws her hand slowly, standing on shaky legs.“Here,” she passes him the water, “Drink.”

At least if she’s upstairs she might get a moment’s relief from the pheromones that seem to be everywhere down here.

As it turns out, Sherlock isn’t ill-prepared for his heat, just stubborn as a bull about his work.The drawer of his bedside table yields a sheet of note paper with a list of first names and phone numbers that Joan is almost positive belong to Sherlock’s alpha “contacts,” a knotted dildo, a mostly-full box of condoms fitted for alphas, and a leather collar.She isn’t sure she’s ever been so glad to see a safety collar in her life.

Nearly three inches wide and thick enough to stop even the most determined of alphas, the safety collar means that no wayward tryst can result in an accidental mating.And that no heat-ridden omegas get mated to a rapist they hadn’t had the ability to fight against.

Taking the contents of the drawer in hand, she steels herself and heads back downstairs.

When Sherlock spots the dildo in her hand he whines and grabs for it, making her hold it behind herself at arm’s length to stop him.

“Woah there, at least wait until I’m out of the room,” she shakes her head and places the dildo at the far end of the table, out of his immediate reach, making his grumble.“I found your list up there, too.Alphas for hire, I assume?”She waits for his nod of affirmation before continuing, “It’s not my first choice, but you’re an adult and it’s your heat, so...” she bites her lip, having to force the words out past stupid, unreasonable jealousy, “If that’s your decision, then I’ll make the call.Just tell me who.”

She passes the sheet of names to him where he lays, giving him ample time to process the words through the haze of heat.

After what feels like hours of her fiddling awkwardly with the cardboard box of condoms, Sherlock nods, then turns the list towards her, pointing at the third name down.

She breathes out a long sigh, then nods and takes the paper.She’ll make the call, because that’s what Sherlock wants.“Sit up.”

He does as he’s told, and she comes to sit behind him on the couch, looping the safety collar around his bare neck.

It’s hard, being so achingly close to Sherlock while he’s like this.The tattoos on his back stand in a stark relief of black ink against the pink tint of his skin, sweat beading in tiny rivulets down over taunt muscle.All she wants is to hold him close and breathe him in.Lick the sweat from his skin and shower every inch of him in adoring kisses and never, ever let him feel as miserable as he’s been since the mysterious Irene died.

But she can’t do that.Just as much as she can’t throw him facedown on the couch and knot him.Because it’s not her place.She’s Sherlock’s sober companion.Nothing more.

The collar buckles with a clink, and she stands back up with enough force to make the feet of the couch scrape against the wood floor.

“Okay, you’re all set.I’ll... um, ‘order’ you your alpha.And I’ll...” she breathes deeply, trying not to dwell on how much she wants him, “I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”

Before she can change her mind, she turns on her heel and walks upstairs to her bedroom.

Door closed, she pulls out her cellphone and calls the number for the third alpha on the list.After three rings, she’s surprised to have a receptionist pick up on the other end.

“Uh... hi, I’m...” she quickly realizes that she has no idea how to do this.Unlike Sherlock, she isn’t in the habit of ordering prostitutes, and she’s incredibly grateful for the fact that the receptionist can’t see how brightly she’s blushing.“I’m calling on behalf of Sherlock Holmes, I believe he’s a... frequent customer of your... business.”

“ _Of course_ ,” the woman on the other side says, blessedly accommodating of Joan’s embarrassment,  “ _Mr. Holmes is one of our premier customers_.” Of course he is. “ _Is there a specific associate I can call out for you_?”

“Um...” god, she hopes she doesn’t need a last name, “Is... Amber available?”

“ _Mistress Amber is available today_.” The word “mistress” sends a shock through Joan’s system, though she tries to ignore it.Professional.She’s going to be  _ professional _ while ordering her charge a prostitute. “ _Is there a time Mr. Holmes would prefer?_ ”

Joan swallows.“When is her soonest availability?”

“ _Her soonest?_ ” There’s the sound of acrylic nails tapping a keyboard,  “ _That would be 4:00pm.Does that work for you?_ ”

Joan glances at her alarm clock.3:30 flashes at her.“That would be great.”

“ _Okay!_ ” the receptionist sounds incredibly perky for a minimum wage madame,  “ _And should I charge today’s visit to the card Mr. Holmes has on file?_ ”

“That’s sounds perfect, thank you.”And just like that, Joan Watson has ordered her first hooker.And it’s not even for herself.

Ending the call, she flops back on the bed, exhausted.


	3. Chapter 3

When the doorbell rings, Joan makes her way downstairs and opens the door to the sight of an alpha woman with long brown hair and dimples.

“Amber?”Joan asks, still blocking the doorway just in case.

“That’s me.”The woman offers her a bright, friendly smile, and Joan finds herself taken aback.“Will you be joining Sherlock and I?”

Joan feels her ears burn.“No.No, I’m not... no.”

Amber gives her a once-over, appraising.“Shame.”

Joan clears her throat, somewhere between humiliated and flattered.“Sherlock’s in the living room.I’ll stay out of your way.”

And with that Joan lets Amber into the Brownstone and walks away before her hormones can make her shove the woman back out the door.

Even in her bedroom, behind closed doors, she can hear Sherlock’s whimpers and moans, hear Amber’s growls, and she can barely keep her head straight.Her cock is throbbing, her brain feels like mush, and she can’t tell if she wants to cry from frustration or scream from jealousy.

She can’t decide, so instead she pulls her cardigan back on and goes to sit on the roof with Sherlock’s bees, where she can’t hear the indecency going on in the living room.

“ _Alpha _!”__

Sherlock’s cry carries up the stairs and seems to hit her like a punch to the gut, sending her stumbling against the wall as a wave of need washes over her.

“Alpha, please! _ Please_!Need your knot!”

Joan punches the wall, forcing herself to focus on the pain in her knuckles instead of the throb down in her knot.

She should be the alpha he’s calling for, not some knot for hire.She should-

She needs to get outside.

The breeze that blows over the rooftop is blessedly cool, and she takes several deep, steadying breaths.There’s nothing but the faintest whiff of Sherlock up here, and she goes to sit quietly in his bee watching chair.

The steady buzzing sound is therapeutic, and she can feel the tension she’s been carrying all day melt away like the soft drip of honey.

She loses track of time, sitting so quietly on the roof, to the point where she nearly jumps out of her skin when the door closes, soft footsteps padding across to her.

It’s Sherlock, clad in nothing but a pair of gray sweats, his hair damp and his body dry and carrying only the lightest smell of heat under the scent of body wash.The only evidence that he’s even had sex within the last twenty-four hours is the smattering of bite marks over his arms and chest.

“How are you feeling?”She asks, not looking away from the hives.

“Much better.”There’s a scraping sound, and then he’s sitting beside her in the second chair, just as focused on his bees as she is.

“And Amber?”

“Off to her next appointment, no doubt.”

They sit in what should be companionable silence for several minutes, the New York City skyline growing darker as the sun begins to set, only she can’t stop worrying over how close she’d come to losing control before.She’s never had a slip-up like that, and the thought is absolutely terrifying.Sherlock’s body is in-between waves currently, but what happens when the next one hits?If she can’t control herself...

“Thank you.”

The words are so preposterous coming from Sherlock’s mouth that she can barely process them.

“What?”

“I said, thank you.”He catches her eyes this time, holding her gaze with steady, clear eyes.“Most alphas wouldn’t...” he swallows, and she knows what he can’t manage to say, “So.Thank you.”

“All in a day’s work,” she jokes, though it seems to fall flat between them.Curiosity gets the better of her, and she finds herself prying in the way she knows he hates.“When was the last time you actually went into heat, anyway?”

As expected, Sherlock’s posture becomes guarded once more, his eyes finding focus on a bee that’s crawling up the outside of the glass.“Never.”

Joan furrows her brows, her brain shorting out.“Never?”

He shakes his head, his jaw tensing as he replies, “I presented at age twelve.I happened to be spending a particularly painful holiday with my father at the time, and the second he found out he had me put on suppressants.”

Joan’s mind is working a mile a minute.Sherlock has  _ never _ gone into heat before today.Sherlock has been on suppressants since he was a child.She’s no stranger to the debates on the ethicality of forcing omegas to take suppressants before they’re of the age to consent, though admittedly, the way most alphas behave, she’s always thought it wasn’t that bad of an idea.If only the parents would actually bring themselves to explain such things to their children.

“Personally, I’ve always agreed with the decision,” Sherlock continues, “One of the very few things my father has ever managed not to completely bungle.I was in boarding school at the time, and it was a veritable breeding ground for hormones run amok, in this case literally.”

She flinches, a small enough movement that she isn’t sure he’s even noticed.Though, knowing Sherlock, he has.The thought of being thrown into what may as well be a modern-day tiger pit at such a young age makes her skin crawl.“My parents nearly threw a party when I presented, they were so relieved.”He turns just enough to look at her, one eyebrow raised.“My mother is an omega.It wasn’t... she had a hard time of it, before she was mated.I was so scrawny and quiet as a kid, I think she just assumed...” Joan shakes her head, remembering days after school when her mother would sit her down and try to prepare her for all of the awful things in the world that would have awaited her as an omega.“Finding out I was an alpha, it was like a weight off their shoulders.”

“And yet, you’ve made your living in traditionally omega-dominated fields.”Sherlock has that look, the one that says he’s either judging or testing her.Probably both.“What, you never felt any desire to pick a career where you could throw your weight around?Never wanted to be, say, in the army?Or politics?Not even... a cop?”

His raised eyebrow is suggestive, and she feels herself flush.Because yes, she damn well enjoys this whole detective thing, and he knows it.Still, she shakes her head, focusing her attention on the past versions of herself.“‘An alpha’s role is to protect and serve, and both of those jobs are of equal importance,’” she quotes, letting herself remember the rush of  _ right _ that had flooded her upon reading those words in the puberty book her mother had given her after that fateful doctor’s visit, “I’ve always believed that taking care of those around you is as much an alpha’s role as guarding against danger.And besides,” she holds Sherlock’s gaze, “I’ve never been in a situation where I couldn’t control myself.”

They leave it there, sitting quietly as night falls, listening to the dimming hum of the bees.When Joan notices Sherlock growing antsy in his chair, she (hopefully) subtly suggests that they should go inside and eat something.After all, if he’s going to be dealing with another wave of heat, he should at least have eaten within the last sixteen hours.

She makes them two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches each, and even manages to get Sherlock to drink another full glass of water before he excuses himself to his room, cheeks flushed.

Joan sighs, left alone in the kitchen to clean up. At least down here she can breathe, the scent of heat dimmed in comparison to the main floor.

She briefly considers sleeping up on the roof, but doing so would mean not being present if something goes wrong, and she can’t let that happen.

Once she has everything clean and put away, she heads upstairs and locks herself in her room.

The second the lock clicks into place, she practically rips her clothes off, leaving them in a haphazard pile on the floor before she falls, face down, on the bed.

Her inner thighs are slick, and her cock is pressed uncomfortably between her stomach and the mattress, and for the first time all day she doesn’t have to hold herself back.

Normally she likes to take her time with these things, use plenty of lube, press the small bullet vibrator she keeps at the back of her bedside drawer hard against the divot between the sides of her knot, fingers working inside of her...

But tonight there’s none of that.Tonight all she can handle is the thrust of her hips against the uncomfortable friction of her sheets, and it’s quick and it’s filthy and none of what she wants, but it’s just enough to release the tension inside of her, allowing her to sink into an exhausted sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

She isn’t sure what wakes her at the ungodly hour of two in the morning, but whatever it is, she’s grateful for it.

Sherlock’s scent is so overpowering, even through closed doors, that she can hardly smell anything else.On it’s own, it shouldn’t be an issue.He’s an omega, he’s in heat, these things happen.

But then she hears him crying.

She’s out of bed and dressing in an instant.Sherlock Holmes doesn’t cry.At least, not that she’s ever observed, and even at just over a month, with the things they’ve dealt with, that’s saying something.

When she gets there, the door to Sherlock’s room is unlocked, and she lets herself in without bothering to knock.She might not have time for that.

Sherlock is naked on his bed, the covers kicked off and piled up at the foot to the point where they’re nearly tumbling to the floor.

She can’t tell if it’s the sound of the door or her scent that alerts him to her presence, but within seconds of her stepping inside he’s calling out for her, arms reaching and legs spread wide.

“Sherlock, I’m right here,” she murmurs, coming to sit at the very edge of his bed.Her mouth is watering with the scent of him, but she can’t think about that now, or the fact that he’s  _naked_ and begging her to fuck him into the mattress, because this is bad.

When she reaches out and touches him, just brushing her fingers against his arm, he cries out like he’s been electrocuted, and she pulls back quickly.

“Shit.I need to take your temperature, just give me a minute,” she says, going to stand up, only to get caught roughly by Sherlock’s hand on her wrist.

“No!No, don’t- J- Joan- please, I-“ he’s babbling, desperate tears in his eyes, and her heart just about shatters when she has to shake him off.

“I won’t be gone more than three minutes, I promise.”She says, voice as calm and reassuring as she can make it, and then she’s hurrying out into the hall before she can change her mind.

She has to dig through the bathroom to find the thermometer, finally locating it behind a nearly expired bottle of aspirin.It’s old-fashioned and made of glass, and she has no idea how long it’s been there, but right now she doesn’t care.

Opening the door to Sherlock’s room, she nearly drops the thermometer when she finds him with three fingers buried deep inside himself, his other hand pumping roughly over his cock.

“Jesus Christ,” is all she manages, her own cock twitching despite her best intentions.“Sherlock,” she tries, coming to stand at his bedside.When he doesn’t respond, eyes shut so tight it seems almost painful, she raises her voice to a shout, “Sherlock!”

His body stills almost immediately, and he sobs at the loss of movement inside of him.His eyes are dazed when he looks at her, his pupils blown, and she can hardly believe how hot he looks like that.

Shaking herself, she takes his chin in her hand, and has to stop him several times from sucking on her fingers before she manages to get the thermometer under his tongue, and even then he suckles like he’s trying to drink from it.

As she waits for it to get an accurate read, she looks him over with a doctor’s eye instead of an alpha’s.

His body is flush from his heat, the short, curled hairs that cover his chest and stomach flat against his skin from his sweat, and yes, she finds it incredibly erotic, but that will have to wait.His breathing is short and heavy, the movement of the air focused down in his stomach instead of his chest.There’s slick coating his thighs, but also his lower stomach and left hand from where he’s been fingering himself.Each and every muscle in his body is tense with need, and when she reaches out to stroke his stomach, her own mind clouded in the dark, too-hot room, it makes his cock jump, slick flooding out of him onto the already soaked sheets, and his body tenses up even more, muscles contracting hard, but he doesn’t cum. 

Instead, the thermometer falls from his mouth when he cries out in pained desperation, and Joan finds herself leaning over to pet his hair, sweaty as it is, trying to bring the omega some small amount of comfort.

Sherlock nuzzles into her hand as she retrieves the thermometer with her free one, breathing a sigh of relief when she finds it within a reasonable range for a heat-riddled omega.As bad as it is, it’s not a heat fever.Not yet.

She places the thermometer on Sherlock’s bedside table, and now she can concentrate on him.

“Can you tell me how you feel?”She asks, thumb running up and down along the edge of his stubble, “What you need?”

She supposes it’s a dumb question, because she already knows the answers, but she wants to get him to talk to her, even if that means asking stupid questions.

“Need...” Sherlock licks his lips, brow furrowed like he’s having trouble putting words together, “Need...  _want_ ,” he corrects, and nearly has the rest of his sentence put together before his body shudders with a wave of hot need, his feet digging hard into the mattress, and he cries out in pain.

Joan pulls his shuddering body to her, easing his muscles with gentle touches until he’s wrapped around her hips, his head resting on her thigh, nuzzling into her stomach.

“Shh, Sherlock... it’s okay... it’s all gonna be okay...” she keeps her voice low, trying hard not to react when he starts lipping at the distended front of her pajama pants.It’s an internal mantra, a desperate, wavering chant of  _ don’t react, don’t make a scene, don’t hurt him when he’s this vulnerable... _

That last part is the only thing keeping her calm as she gently pushes his head away, forcing him off of her erection.He whines, and when she catches his eyes they’re shining with barely contained tears.

“Come here,” she instructs, and he obediently climbs into her lap.Or, at least, as much as he can, considering how much bigger than her he is.She just holds him, rocking gently back and forth as he breaks down into tears, his hands gripping her so tight she might just bruise.

“H- hurts...” he manages, his grip turning nearly unbearable as his body shudders with another crashing wave of heat.

“Shh,” she presses her lips to his neck, tears pricking at her own eyes at seeing Sherlock so miserable, “It’s gonna be okay.I’m right here... I’m gonna make it okay...”

The legs of her pants are soaked through with his slick, his cock pressed hard against her stomach, and she knows as well as anyone what he needs to stop the painful arousal that’s wracking his body.

He needs a knot.

He gets knotted, the pain stops.He can cum, and his body can recuperate for the next wave.

The horrible, instinctual part of her brain is telling her that  _she_ has a knot.It would be so easy like this, with him already nude and curled in her lap.Just pull down her pajama pants and thrust up into him... 

She grips Sherlock protectively, even though it’s her that she’s protecting him from.He’s never felt like this before, she reminds herself, all of it is terrifying and new and he needs her to help him make sense of it.

“Where’s your dildo?”She asks, petting his hair as he tries to rut against her stomach.

Sherlock only shakes his head, whimpering something that sounds like “ _need _...”__

____

Downstairs.It has to be, if it’s not here.Groaning, she practically  _peels_ Sherlock off of her.

____

“I’m going to go and get it.It’ll help,” she tries to explain, even though the loss of contact has reduced him to a heartbreakingly desperate curled bundle on the bed.“I’ll be right back.”

____

Her clothes stick to her with sweat and slick, and it’s disgusting, but she’s wrapped in Sherlock’s scent, and that part of it isn’t so bad.

____

She finds the knotted dildo downstairs, trying not to think about what may have happened to it since last she saw it.The knot may be made of silicone, but his body shouldn’t know the difference.

____

Once she’s back at his side, she helps him to lay, spread out on his back, and tucks a pillow beneath his hips to help him get comfortable.She’s done this before, professionally even, which makes it just slightly easier to think of Sherlock as just another patient.

____

She spreads his legs, keeping his knees up, and gently strokes his thighs as she softly presses the head of the dildo against his slick, open hole.

____

He makes a sound like she’s never heard before, somewhere between a sob and a yowl, and she grips his thigh tightly, pressing her forehead into his knee to try and focus herself on the task at hand.Her very, very slippery hand.

____

The easiest thing for her would be to do this as quickly as possible, thrust in hard because she knows the amount of slick his body is producing would be more than enough to keep him from tearing, and force the knot inside of him.

____

But he’s over-sensitive and barely holding on by a thread, and she knows that doing so would be painful for him.If she’s going to do this, she has to take at least a modicum of care in it.She doesn’t know what he’s used to taking, so she has to do this properly.

____

The push and slide of simulated thrusts have him crying out and riding the toy within seconds, and she clenches her legs tightly to stop herself from humping against his braced leg, her fingers wrapped tightly around the fake knot to keep her grip.

____

When her knuckles finally brush his rim, she readjusts her grip, taking the toy by the base instead. 

____

She allows herself to watch now, telling herself that it’s purely to make sure she doesn’t hurt him with the knot.She pushes slowly, sucking in her breath as she watches his already stretched rim stretch wider still, the skin an ever-lightening shade of pink around the creamy color of the dildo.

____

Sherlock shouts, his voice muffled by a pillow, when the widest section finally presses inside, his body automatically pulling in the second half of the knot with it.

____

Joan lets out a shaky breath, relieved, as she begins to twist and pump the knot inside of him, aiming now for sensation more than anything else.

____

She kisses his knee with far more gentleness than she thinks she should have left in her, his kneecap digging into her temple as she looks up to his face, creased and pained as he thrusts back against the knot.

____

“Try touching yourself again,” she prompts, swallowing back the sudden flood of saliva when he wraps a hand around his cock, thumb tugging at foreskin while his fingers work the shaft roughly.“That’s right,” her voice is hoarse, and she tucks her face back behind his knee, body stiff with the tension of holding herself in check, “That’s-  _fuck_ , Sherlock, that’s it.Just let go.It’s okay, I’ve got you.” 

____

She twists, pressing the knot roughly into the spot she knows will make him see stars, and bites her cheek so hard she tastes blood when he rises off of the mattress with a shout, cumming hard with a rush of slick against her hand.

____

She lets go of the dildo shakily, knowing it’s best to leave him knotted as he comes down from his orgasm.Her breathing sounds just as heavy as Sherlock’s, and she’s sure it must look like she’s wet herself, between pre-cum and slick, but she doesn’t care.

____

He’s okay.

____

He’s okay, and she’s managed to keep herself in check, and they’re both going to make it through his heat.

____

Her legs wobble when she stands, but otherwise she’s none the worse for wear.Sherlock’s stomach and chest are heaving and splattered with pearlescent cum, and she sighs.He’ll need a shower, possibly a bath if his legs can’t hold him yet, and his sheets need to be changed, which means she’ll have to do laundry, but she can do that.She can do  _this_.

____

She kisses his forehead softly before leaving the room, his eyes still closed as he pants, and promises that she’ll be back as quickly as possible.

____


	5. Chapter 5

She jerks off again while taking the world’s quickest shower, washing and re-washing until she doesn’t feel any slick when she passes her fingers between her folds.Once clean, she isn’t sure she so much as wants to  _touch_ her pajama bottoms, but scoops them up in her wet towel anyway so that she can throw them in with Sherlock’s sheets.

This time, she dresses in street clothes, her mind buzzing with plans to walk to the twenty-four hour pharmacy nearby and pick up as many bottles of electrolytes as she can carry.

She glances at her bed, forcing back a groan when she remembers that her sheets need to be cleaned as well after getting off on them earlier in the evening.

Stripping the bed takes no time at all, and she ends up leaving the pile of dirty laundry in the hallway.

When she gets back to Sherlock, he’s sitting up in bed, and looking thoroughly disgusted with himself.

“Bathroom’s all yours,” she says, leaning in the doorway and trying to breathe through her mouth to avoid being wrapped back up in omega scent.

He only hums in acknowledgment, staring down at his knees.

She bites her lip, “Do... you need any help getting up?”

He shakes his head, and when he looks up at her he seems... uncertain.Nervous, even.

“Sherlock?”She asks, and finds herself coming to sit beside him.

He takes a deep breath, scrubbing a hand over his jaw.“Watson, I...” he shifts slightly, turning so that they’re sitting parallel to each other, “I wanted to... apologize, for any advances I made while I was...”

“Sherlock, no,” she interrupts, “It’s perfectly normal for omegas to lose themselves in the moment during their heat.You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Still, I fear that I may have... overstepped.”He’s fiddling with his hands, body hunched over, “It was... inconsiderate of me to... put you in that position.”

“Stop.”The word comes out harsher than she’s intended, and he flinches away slightly in response, “How I behave is in no way your responsibility.All you should have to worry about is taking care of yourself, I can handle the rest.”

Sherlock gets to his feet slowly, testing his strength as he straightens.“I’m sure that I in no way need to tell you how potentially harmful your last words could be to your psyche,” he says, not looking at her, “But I do appreciate your sentiments.”He leans heavily on the doorframe, glancing over his shoulder at her briefly, “And again, thank you.”

—

While Sherlock takes his shower, Joan gets to work on stripping his bed.The mattress pad also ends up needing to be washed, and she wonders how best to remake the bed when she has no idea how long or intense Sherlock’s heat is going to be.

As it turns out, there aren’t any other mattress pads in the Brownstone, so she ends up employing a patchwork of beach towels (and who knew where  those had come from) and a layering technique she had learned from a friend while her son was being potty trained.

The bottom layer ends up with a set of flowery cotton sheets that smell of what she can only describe as old formaldehyde and blueberries, while the top layer has butter yellow sheets that are almost in acceptable condition, except for the large burn hole in one of the corners of the fitted sheet.The bed is lumpy from the towels, but it’ll work just fine until she can get it better equipped for his heat.

The washer in the Brownstone is old, and, she’s fairly certain, mostly held together by soap grime.Even still, it’s a trooper, and she manages to get everything into a single load, closing the metal lid with a clang.

Sherlock is in the kitchen when she finds him, leaning against the counter and sipping slowly from a mug.

“Tea?”She asks, nodding toward it.Sherlock hums in ascension.“Try to stay away from coffee while you’re in heat, the caffeine can mess with your body and make the symptoms worse.”

“It’s a little early for jeans, isn’t it?”He asks, one eyebrow raised as he takes in her outfit.

“I’m making a run to the pharmacy.You’ll start to feel light-headed and lethargic from loss of electrolytes soon between your slick and sweat.”She pulls a clean glass down from the cupboard, trying not to look at Sherlock, freshly showered and dressed in nothing but a pair of navy boxer briefs, “Your bed is made and the dirty sheets are in the wash.I’m taking my phone, so don’t hesitate to text me if you need me.”

“If I find myself suffering from another wave of my heat, you mean?”

Joan stops, setting the empty glass on the counter.“Like I said, your heat is nothing to be ashamed of.As your sober companion, I’m here to help you transition into living without drugs, and that includes learning how to deal with your heats without suppressants.”

“Ridiculous,” Sherlock mutters, pushing away from the counter, “Taking omegas off of their suppressants.It’s not like they take people off of anti-psychotics.”

“You know as well as I do that it has nothing to do with the hormone-balancing effects,” Joan follows after him as he begins stalking around the ground level, “One of the main side-effects of heat suppressants is that they amplify the effects of other medications and can keep them in your system far longer than normal.That’s why omegas have different medication dosages depending on whether they’re on them or not.”

Sherlock only grunts in acknowledgement, and when she catches up to him, he’s pacing the living room.He stops in the middle of the room, staring down at the scattered case files he had left there the morning before when he’d dragged her out to arrest their prime suspect.“We were in the middle of a case.” 

His words are flat, and she doesn’t have to ask why he’s suddenly gone so stiff.

“Bell can handle it,” she assures, coming to stand beside him.

“Rubbish.”He stamps his foot like a petulant toddler, and then he’s off to pacing again.

“Sherlock,” she tries, already feeling dizzy from constantly turning to keep her eyes on him, but he doesn’t even acknowledge her.

“I-  _we_ should be out there!”He snaps, gesticulating wildly, “I was- I missed something.I know I did!If I could just-“ he breaks off with a growl, grabbing a book off of the shelf, only to send it flying across the room in frustration.

“Sherlock!”She grabs him.Actually grabs him, fingers gripping tightly around the tense muscles of his forearm, a commanding growl in her throat.He goes perfectly still, hazel eyes wide, and she knows she’s gone too far.

She lets go of him too quickly, practically jumping away.Her heart is racing, her mind a muddied mess of too little sleep and too many hormones, and she knows that Sherlock must feel the same.They’re both barely hanging on by a thread, but she’s the alpha here.There’s an omega in her care, and she needs to keep him safe.He’s fragile, and he’s scared, and she may not know a lot about Sherlock Holmes with how closely guarded he keeps himself, but she knows that those emotions tend to show up as frustration and evasiveness in him, which means that she can’t let his tantrums get to her.

“I’m-“ Sherlock still hasn’t moved, and she sighs deeply, “I’m sorry.I shouldn’t have snapped.Just because I’m frustrated doesn’t give me a right to treat you like that.”

Sherlock is looking at his feet, fingers tapping against his bare thighs.Eventually he groans, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes, “No, I’m... I shouldn’t have-“ he growls in frustration, “I can’t  _think_!”

Joan softens, and when she places a gentle hand on his shoulder, he doesn’t flinch away.“Go back to bed, Sherlock.I’ll go to the store, and in the morning we can figure everything out, okay?”

He hesitates for a moment, just long enough for her to worry that he might refuse, but then he lowers his hands and nods, slumping as he makes his way towards the stairs.“Very well.Goodnight, Watson.”

“Goodnight.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, this one’s short too.
> 
> Oh well.

The brisk, late night air bites through the thin jacket she’s pulled on for her walk to the store, but she finds it more welcome than anything else.

Cold air has always helped her clear her head, and tonight that’s the thing she wants more than anything else in the world. 

Of course, a walk through New York in the dead of night is never exactly calming, even if she is an alpha, but somehow the idea of getting jumped is less scary and more invigorating tonight.

At least if someone tries to mug her, she can have an excuse to beat them up and get out some of the pent up energy swirling inside of her.

She hates how hard she’s having to work to keep her cool around Sherlock.She’s worked with and around omegas for years, and never once has it been this difficult.Which is ridiculous, because there’s nothing about Sherlock Holmes that should make it any harder than usual.

Except... she thinks, hands buried in her jacket pockets as she waits at a corner to cross the street, there  is something about Sherlock Holmes that makes it harder.It’s the same thing that she’s read time and time again in the ridiculous romance novels that she’d never admit she reads, the crux of every clichéd rom-com and corny action film: it’s because they’re soulmates.

The signal changes, and she makes her way across the street and into the pharmacy with her head lowered, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone while she’s so wrapped up in her own thoughts.

_ Soulmates _ had been merely a story back in the thirties, back before human fertility rates had dropped dramatically, before alphas and omegas had become commonplace.Now, though...

Now soulmates have become a fact of life, though finding them remains as difficult as ever, to the point where Joan had begun wondering if the stories were just that: stories.

But Sherlock smells amazing.His scent makes her mouth water even when he’s not in heat, though she tries to ignore it, and just merely sharing space with him makes her body tingle, makes her feel like she’s being pulled towards him like a planet in orbit.And yes, it’s exactly what all the books, and the movies, and the songs have told her it should be, but more than that, it’s terrifying.

It’s terrifying because she doesn’t date clients.It’s terrifying because her brain is buzzing with memories of the last time she dated an addict.It’s terrifying because Sherlock is as much a loose fuse as he is a world unto himself.And it’s terrifying because somehow none of that is enough to convince her that he’s a bad idea.

She can make her way through the aisle of heat necessities far easier than most alphas, and she stops to choose a package of absorbent pads sized for Sherlock’s bed.The package is big and bulky, but she’s sure the cashier will be willing to stick a strap to it so she can carry it home.

She ignores the half-shelf of condoms and toys, knowing that Sherlock is already well-equipped in that area, but pauses when a container of white liquid catches her eye.

With how susceptible Sherlock is to a heat fever, having imitation alpha cum on hand wouldn’t be a bad idea.Only, when she picks up the bottle for a closer look, it’s not even close to the medical grade version that she’s used to, more like glorified lube than anything.Sighing, she replaces it on the shelf and heads to pick out a case of sports drinks to go with the box of rehydration salts already in her basket.

—

Stepping back inside the Brownstone is like being slapped in the face with the fact that an omega in heat lives there.

Tucking the package of bedding pads under her arm, she makes absolutely certain that the locks on the front door are properly set.The last thing they need is for any nosey alphas to come sniffing around after Sherlock in the state that he’s in.

She takes five seconds to just breathe, steadying herself as her body responds to the needy omega waiting for her downstairs.There’s a frustrated, desperate part of her that keeps crying out that it’s  _ not fair_.It’s not fair that she puts up with this obnoxious, emotionally constipated brat of a man for a month and a half and doesn’t even get the satisfaction of fucking him into the mattress.Of holding him down and sinking her teeth into the scent glands at his neck, making him whimper when she draws blood...

She isn’t proud of that part, and she takes extra care to grind it down into nothing but a bones-deep exhaustion before hefting the plastic bag laden with bottles up higher on her arm and heading for the stairs.

The heavy scent of vanilla and musk that fills the kitchen coats her tongue and sticks to the back of her throat.Has omega scent always been this strong?She’s not sure, but it’s making her woozy, so she cracks the caps of the bottles and fills the largest shelf in the fridge with them.

Sherlock’s room is dark and silent, and when she cracks open one of the doors, she finds him sprawled facedown on the second set of sheets, a pillow between his legs and one hand loosely grasping a bedpost.

Undoubtedly he’s in the come-down from a recent orgasm, and if nothing else it’s assurance that she has time to sleep before he’ll need her next.

She closes the door with a quiet click, a soft smile playing at her lips, and tiptoes up to her room to get some actual rest.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Further negotiations are worked out. Also... food? I may have been hungry while writing this one.

“Morning!”

Joan just buries her head underneath her pillow, trying to block out the light and noise and go back to sleep.Her body feels like she’s been hit by a truck, and if she could just... close... her eyes...

Something clinks on her bedside table, and she groans, sitting up to face the day.

Sherlock is standing beside her bed, dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes as bright and attentive as ever.She can still smell his heat on him, though it’s dulled currently, and she can also smell...

Bacon.

He’s brought her breakfast.

Wordlessly, she takes a piece of bacon from the tray, munching on it as she looks him over.

“Someone’s feeling better,” she says at last, licking the grease from her fingertips.

“Quite,” Sherlock agrees, bouncing a little as he watches her, “For the moment, at least.You were right about the electrolytes.”

Joan glances at her clock.It’s 9:30 already.“How long have you been up?”

“Several hours, on and off.I called detective Bell once I was able to, he says they’re making strong headway on the case.”

“See?I told you it would be fine.”She relaxes, pleasantly surprised to see Sherlock so much like his regular self in the light of a new day.No doubt his heat is still bothering him, but for the moment he appears to be perfectly functional in his mind and body, and she reaches over to take a piece of buttered toast.

“Yes...” Sherlock rocks a little on his heels, eyes downcast, and Joan raises a questioning eyebrow at him.

“Was there something else?”

He scratches at his jaw, still not making eye contact.“I have a... a request, that I would like you to hear out, Watson.”

“Okay.”The pit in her stomach is back, and Joan replaces her half-eaten toast back on the breakfast tray.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, like he’s gearing up for a speech, and meets her eyes with what appears to be a monumental effort.“Re- regardless of my own personal inexperience, I am in no way naive to the danger of my current situation.While heat suppressants are effective in their intended purpose, the side-effects of going off of them can be... highly detrimental, if not done properly.”

Joan frowns.Sherlock is circling verbally, listing off facts as though to try and prep her for whatever is coming next, and she doesn’t like it.She can’t tell if what he has to say is good or bad, but his hesitancy is... unnerving, to say the least.She waves him on, and he continues.

“As such... as such, I am more than aware of the fact that I am at great risk for a heat fever, a condition which, if left untreated, is more than likely to be deadly...”

She sighs with relief.He’s just anxious?It’s not typical for Sherlock to voice his personal concerns, but if nothing else it’s something she’s more than equipped to handle.“I know how to deal with a heat fever.I’ve treated them before, and if caught early enough, it’s nothing a hospital can’t handle.If your symptoms start to get that bad, I can-“

Sherlock holds up a hand, stopping her mid-sentence.“With all due respect to your previous profession, Watson, the medicinal methods for treating a heat fever are not exactly fool-proof.”

Joan rubs at her temples, the now all-too-familiar feeling of aggravation beginning to bite at her nerves.“There’s only a twenty-percent chance of your body rejecting the treatment, and even then the chances drop even further in healthy individuals.The only completely fool-proof method of treatment is-“ she stops herself then, eyes widening as she realizes just where Sherlock is going with this.“No.”

“Watson,” he starts, voice coaxing.

“No.”Joan gets to her feet, feeling only slightly ridiculous at having this argument in her pajamas.“I can’t.It’s too risky, and you’re in heat, I can’t-“

“Watson.”Sherlock takes her by the shoulders, voice level as he holds her gaze intently, “I am entirely of my right mind in this moment.I appreciate your concern, but understand that that is exactly why I feel confident in asking this of you.”

Joan swallows, feeling entirely off-kilter under Sherlock’s intense stare.This close, she can scent his hormones, exaggerated from their usual state, but still muted in comparison to where they would be were he caught in the swing of another wave of his heat.More than that, though, she can see the clarity in his eyes as they search hers, the lines of his face drawn in anxiety over her response.He’s not lying, he is completely present and as calm as he can be, all things considered.He’s thought this through, though she can hardly imagine why he would have come to this conclusion.“You want me to knot you.”

Sherlock lets her go, dropping his hands to his sides.“Should the need arise, there is no one I trust more with my well-being than you.So yes, if I should indeed be afflicted by a heat fever, I would like you to be the one to break it.”

She can’t deny the way his words make warmth pool in her lower belly, followed by a tentative pulse down between her legs.He wants her to knot him.He had wanted her to knot him last night as well, but this is entirely different.This isn’t the begging of an incoherent omega, desperate for relief, but the request of a friend, fully formed and offered up with a side of bacon.

She’s an alpha, and the omega under her care is asking her to take on the most fundamentally important role she can for him.It’s terrifying, and yet, there’s a soul-deep confidence that levels her voice as she reaches out, brushing her fingers over his neck.

“Okay.”

—

Sherlock stays in his bedroom most of the day.Joan checks on him every two hours on the dot if he hasn’t come out beforehand, checking his temperature and making sure he stays hydrated.

Two different alphas come and go from the Brownstone, both of them female, and Joan even manages to send them down to Sherlock without a single growl.She isn’t sure if it’s due to their discussion that morning or not, but she feels more at ease as they work through the second day of his heat.

They get a call from Gregson at 2:56pm to say that they’ve wrapped up the case, and that if he sees Sherlock inside the station before he’s fully recovered from his heat he’s suspending him.

She orders Thai for dinner, and Sherlock joins her at the table in a pair of boxers.

“How are you feeling?”She asks casually, digging in to a container of chicken fried rice.

“Rather like a cheap whore,” Sherlock replies, and when she looks back up at him he’s sucking down what has to be at least his sixth glass of rehydration salts that day.

“Interesting, considering you’re the one paying.”

He rolls his eyes, but she can see the twitch of a smile when he goes to grab his own food.

“I’ll run you a bath after dinner, okay?”

“I think I would prefer to just go to sleep,” he grumbles, and she can see the droop of his eyelids when he stops to lean heavily on his elbows.

“It’ll help with the ache in your muscles,” she coaxes.

“ _Watson _,” he sounds exasperated, and she cuts him off before he can get out the rest of his sentence.__

“Just let me take care of you.”

Whatever his protests are, they die on his lips, and an awkward, tense silence falls over them for a long moment.

“Very well, doctor.”That little smile is back, and Joan can’t help but find it infectious.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me? Projecting my own weird coping mechanisms onto fictional characters? Never.
> 
> Real talk though, I’ve legitimately vacuumed my entire house due to being dominantly frustrated.

She isn’t sure how long it’s been since the old claw-foot tub has been used for its intended purpose, so she takes extra care to scrub the porcelain with disinfectant cleaner and hot water before running Sherlock a bath.

She eyeballs out the two cups of the plain epsom salt that she adds to the water, wishing absently that she could have a bottle of lavender oil to join it.Unfortunately, Sherlock isn’t exactly one for self-care, and the only reason she’s found the epsom salt is because he’d used most of the bag in an experiment.

It feels good to be taking care of an omega like this, and she takes the extra time to lay out clean pajamas and a fresh towel before calling Sherlock up to take his bath.

“I’ll be downstairs if you need anything,” she says, already halfway out the bathroom door as Sherlock takes in the steam-filled room.“You should stay in the water for at least half an hour to get the full effects of the epsom salt, and yes, I fully intend on timing you.”

Sherlock huffs, somewhere between exasperated and amused.“I suppose you have cameras set up to be sure that I don’t just spend the next half hour sitting on the counter?”

“No,” she knows he’s being facetious, but her response is more matter-of-fact than annoyed, “But it would be a waste of your time.I’ll see you when you’re done.”

She closes the door behind her and heads down to the main floor.

She might not be able to indulge the alpha instincts that are telling her to breed Sherlock, but that doesn’t mean that all of them have to be pushed down.She’s always thought that nesting instincts were some of the more ridiculous things to come out of the genetic splicing of wolf and human DNA, but it’s there, and right now she’s happy enough to indulge them.

Since the Brownstone isn’t actually her house, she doesn’t want to go too far with anything, but a bit of sexually frustrated tidying can’t hurt, and should keep them from eating out of mugs for the next few days, at least.

She starts in Sherlock’s room, the double doors and kitchen windows flung open wide to try and lessen the impact of the dizzying haze of heat scent that fills the space.

She picks up the discarded clothing on the floor and furniture, piling it in his soiled fitted sheet before re-dressing the bed.The absorbent pads are already paying off, even if they don’t do anything for the sheets above them, and she begins the process of layering with clean sheets for the third time that day.

On a whim, she collects a selection of pillows from around the Brownstone and piles them in the rough shape of a large nest on Sherlock’s bed.It might be edging the line of propriety for their client/companion relationship, but she takes the chance and tucks one of her yet-to-be-washed pajama tops in with the pillows, hoping that her alpha scent will bring him some comfort throughout the night.

After Sherlock’s room, she gets to cleaning the kitchen.It’s not a deep clean, and she leaves the washed dishes to drip dry while she cleans out the fridge.Two trash bags later, and she’s headed to the basement with the laundry.

She’ll need to buy more detergent before next week, she notes while filling the cap to the nigh-imperceptible line in the dark room.The thought leaves a sour feeling in the pit of her stomach, and she doesn’t have to dig far to know why.

She isn’t going to be here after next week.This week, now.She has a new client lined up already, a beta this time, and Sherlock will become just another fading face in her memory.She must be feeling more emotional than she realized, because the thought draws a whine from deep in her throat.

She rationalizes the reaction by telling herself that it’s just because of the hormonal response to Sherlock’s heat.Not that she wants to stay.Not that there’s a very high chance that they’re destined to be mates.She just... wants to keep Sherlock safe.Because of her instincts.Nothing more.

She’s kidding herself, and she knows it, but her other option is too daunting to try and deal with, so she goes with denial instead.

Sighing with the sudden on-set of emotional exhaustion, she starts the washer and collects the clean laundry from the dryer.

Sherlock is waiting for her when she gets back up to the main floor, dressed in a set of matching striped pajamas that she’s never actually seen him wear, and when she checks the clock she’s pleasantly surprised to see that it’s been a full hour.

“So, was the bath as torturous as you thought it’d be?”She asks, coming to sit beside him on the couch.

“It wasn’t entirely unpleasant,” he responds, leaning down slightly to meet the back of her hand as she reaches to check his temperature.“I could even be persuaded to take another, I believe.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”He’s warmer than she’d like, but there’s a good chance that it’s due to the warm bath, so she doesn’t make a fuss.“Would you like me to put your safety collar back on?”

Sherlock glances down at the leather collar in his hands, almost as though he’d forgotten about it.“Yes, please.”

Taking it from his hands, she directs him to sit with his back to her.Being so close as she covers his scent glands is nearly as bad as scenting them, but she forces herself to concentrate on the dusty linen scent of his pajamas instead, and when she has the strap tucked in properly she’s almost managed not to get hard from it.

She shifts before Sherlock is fully turned back to her, blocking his view of her lower half with a raised knee.It’s an obvious move, but he doesn’t comment on it, seemingly distracted by fiddling with his collar, so she counts her blessings and moves on.

“Do you want some tea?”

“No, thank you.”He shakes his head, then moves to stand.“Well, I’m off to bed, then.No point in trying to work on any old cases when I can barely read in this condition.Will you be retiring as well?”

Joan mimics his head shake.“No, I think I’ll be up a while longer.”

Once Sherlock is off to his room, she gets back to work with a renewed vigor.She can’t bring herself to just sit around her room feeling sexually frustrated, and she isn’t tired enough to sleep yet, either.

The books in the library get reorganized to be color-coded, then organized again by author.Angus is dusted along with the rest of the mantle, and the cushions on the couch and each chair fluffed and set in the most decorative way she can manage (which admittedly just means tucking them diagonally into the corners.)

She almost goes to reorganize Sherlock’s lock wall, but then thinks better of it.It’s bad enough that she’s messed with his books, and she’s sure that he’ll be much more protective of his workspace than of the library.

Instead, she tiptoes down to the basement, switching over the laundry so that it won’t grow musty overnight.

She knows it’s wrong, but she can’t quite stop herself from edging towards the double doors to Sherlock’s room on her way back up to the library.She can scent him from anywhere in the house by this point in his heat, but it’s so much stronger here, with her forehead pressed against the wooden doorframe.

She can hear him too, needy and wanton where he doesn’t know she can hear.His moans are already high-pitched and short, and she can’t help wondering if he’s found her shirt.The thought of him clutching it, nose buried against the fabric as he gets himself off, is even more intoxicating than his scent, and before she realizes what’s happening, she’s grinding her hips into the wall.

She hears a smack, followed by Sherlock letting out a yelp that turns long and reedy with need. _Shit_ , her hips jerk quick and hard against the wall at the sound, her mind reeling. _Where the hell did he hit himself?_

There’s another smack, then another, but his cries are muffled now, blocked by something he’s stuffed into his mouth.Joan bites down on her arm, stopping the moan that keeps trying to escape.She doesn’t know what he has in his mouth, but whatever it is, she desperately wants to replace it with her cock.

She’s never mouth-knotted anyone, but the thought is enough to make her clench her thighs together as she thrusts.If she could, she would grab Sherlock by his scruffy hair, fucking his mouth long and deep until she popped her knot, when she would press it, slow and purposeful, all the way into his mouth, locking herself in against the back of his teeth.

Mouth-knotting is dangerous if done improperly.The chance of an alpha blocking their partner’s windpipe when they knot is too great, and unless the alpha in question has a particularly small knot, there isn’t any way to remove it from their partner’s mouth until it would be much too late.But Joan isn’t stupid, and if you know the correct angles, mouth-knotting is a fairly easy task to undertake.She would fill that obnoxious mouth of Sherlock’s with her knot until his throat had wrung her completely dry, with no chance of any of her cum spilling out after she had shot directly down his throat.

She doesn’t realize that she’s growling, deep and guttural like an alpha in a proper rut, until she’s up on her toes, her free hand down between her legs to palm the head of her cock.

Under Sherlock’s muffled moans is the wet slap of skin and slick, the sound of him fucking his own hand, and it’s too much.

She cums with a deep snarl and a sharp pain in her arm, too far gone to care about the fact that she’s gotten off on the wall like a desperate teenager.She shudders in the aftershocks, hips twitching every few seconds with another shot of thick cum that spurts out from between her fingers.

Sherlock is still whining by the time she comes back to herself fully, edging himself via withholding the knot of his dildo, no doubt.The arm she’s muffled herself with has a perfect imprint of teeth on it, dark pink from how hard she’s bitten, and she wipes her own saliva off on her shirt.She has to do more laundry anyway, now that she’s cum in her pants, so she doesn’t bother worrying about it when she wipes her other hand off on the inside of her underwear.

At this rate, they’ll definitely need more detergent before the end of the week.


End file.
